“Writing a book, I fancy; an Irish tour,—one of those mock sentimentalities with bad politics and false morality Frenchmen ventilate about England. He goes poking into the cabins and asking the people about their grievances; and now he says he wants to hear the other side, and learn what the gentlemen say.”
“We 'll have to ask him over here,” said Colonel Bramleigh, coolly, as if the thought had occurred to him then for the first time.
“He'll amuse you, I promise you,” said Cutbill.
“I'd like to meet him,” said Jack. “I had the ill-luck to bowl him over in the hunting-field, and cost him a broken leg. I 'd like to make all the excuses in my power to him.”
“He bears no malice about it; he said it was all his own fault, and that you did your best to pick him up, but your horse bolted with you.”
“Let's have him to dinner by all means,” said Augustus; “and now that Temple has made a formal visit, I take it we might invite him by a polite note.”
“You must wait till he returns the call,” said Marion, stiffly.
“Not if we want to show a courteous desire to make his acquaintance,” said Temple. “Attentions can be measured as nicely and as minutely as medicaments.”
“All I say,” said Jack, “is, have him soon, or I may chance to miss him; and I 'm rather curious to have a look at him.”
Colonel Bramleigh turned a full look at Jack, as though his words had some hidden meaning in them; but the frank and easy expression of the sailor's face reassured him at once.